


We Don't Talk About Love

by cgb



Category: This Life
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgb/pseuds/cgb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the second time he's bailed you out of a break up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Don't Talk About Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [futuransky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuransky/gifts).



> _We only want to get drunk_ \- Manic Street Preachers

The living room is empty. So is the kitchen. You go into the bedroom and it's empty save for the orange-yellow light shade dangling above the naked globe in the centre. Lenny owned the furniture. You were never brave enough to commit to shared assets.

This part is familiar: clothes, a towel, some weed, your CDs. This is everything you own and if you had to move it would still all fit in a black plastic bag like it did when you left Mia. Wait. It's been more than a year. It's almost winter. Your last break up took place in the summer.

"Ferdy?" Warren's sleeping in the second bedroom. A mattress on the floor and an old clothing rack for his suits. He moved in when you did. When the house in Southwark fell apart. He puts his hand on your shoulder. "When did you get home?" he says.

"He's gone?" you say, ignoring his question. You look at the steps leading to the front door and wonder how Lenny got the bed down there. The house is an awkward design. A corner shop once. Large windows at the front. One large room converted into three and a kitchen and bathroom tacked on the back. The real estate agent said that Brixton was the new east end. Neither of you believed it but you moved in anyway.

"Left an hour ago," Warren says. He looks up at the light shade. "And I thought he'd taken everything. "

You've got a joint in your pocket. You take it out, light it, breathe in and then out again. "Fuck," you say.

"You okay?" Warren says.

"Yeah," you say. You hand Warren the joint. You're fucking brilliant.

*

"Let's go to Brighton," Warren says.

"What for?" You say. Warren bought a couch and he's sitting on it now reading gay street press. It's a nice couch. Much better than Lenny's but then Warren has always had refined taste.

"Brighton Pride," Warren says. "Dancing, men in shorts, the beach, M People."

You take a seat next to him and peer over his shoulder. Brighton actually doesn't sound bad. Maybe it's just what you need? Some time away. Sort things out in your head.

"Left it a bit late, haven't we?" You say. It's this weekend. "We'll never get rooms."

"I know someone," Warren says.

"Yeah?" you say. "They've got room for both of us?"

"It'll be sleeping bags on the floor," Warren says. "Don't worry, they're not expecting us to share a bed."

"I never said anything," you say, but you were thinking it. Lenny's been gone for a month and you really don't know what Warren wants from you. If anything. You feel bad for second guessing him. This is the second time he's bailed you out of a break up.

Saturday morning comes around and you're packing bags onto the back of the bike and heading out before the traffic. If doesn't really work and the M23 is bumper to bumper but on a bike you can bypass most of it and sail through the congestion. You get to Brighton by midday, just in time to join the queue of cars crawling past the promenade.

"This is insane," Warren says, as you pass the West Pier. He sounds excited. The sun is out, guys in tight shorts are running along the beach and rainbow flags are hanging from the cafes. Brighton likes a good gay party. What else is beach front property for?

Warren's got friends in Hove which is less crazy than the Brighton promenade but not so far away you can't crawl home if you need to. They've put sleeping bags on air mattresses on the floor and they tell you they hope you won't need them. You know what they mean but you're sceptical about pulling at a big gay party. Even after Lenny it's still not your thing. You think the floor will be just fine.

The evening starts as soon as you've laid your bags down. Warren's got ecstasy, you've got pot, and Warren's friends have poppers and a liquor cabinet. You light up a joint while your hosts mix cocktails. Warren says, "You think I should have bought some blow?" And you laugh, because clearly what this party needs is more drugs.

It's a big night. Different from the London scene. Less about who's at which club and where the best place is to get photographed with George Michael, than it is about one big crowd dancing on the beach and getting wasted.

Lenny preferred the pub to a gay bar but you both kept Warren company on the scene sometimes. You don't dance to Whitney Houston and you only know some of the words to "I Will Survive," but you kind of fit in anyway. Maybe you're sort of gay now? You're not sure of the rules and Warren still calls you bisexual so who knows what it's all about?

You sit down on the pebble beach and watch Warren snogging a blonde against the wall of the promenade. You're trashed and the sun is rising but the e's keeping you awake and making you feel oddly comfortable on your seat of rock. Warren puts his hand down the blonde's pants and you look away, try to give them privacy. Stupid really. The beach is crowded.

An hour later and Warren has lost the blonde an hour ago and you walk back to Hove together trying to remember the first line to "Wonderwall." Warren says he knows it. "Everybody knows it," he says. For the life of you neither of you can remember how it starts.

You make it back at 6 am and bed down on the floor. The house is empty. God knows what happened to your hosts. You think about fixing something to eat but you can barely move and Warren is too comatose to navigate the sleeping bag let alone utensils. You unzip it and throw it over the both of you and he shuffles into your neck, mumbling something about being shitfaced. You laugh and sling your arm around him.

*

Warren's a lawyer again. He's in the bathroom, dressed in a three piece suit with cuff links and a designer tie. He looks like he comes with a price tag. You remember this is what caught your attention in the first place. The suit, the honest expression, the hopeful eyes, the suit.

There was a guy. The first time. He said you could tell a gay by the extra two seconds of eye contact. The extra two seconds of, _Are you? Are you one too? How about you?_ When you met Warren he was broadcasting that spiel on all frequencies. Like a lighthouse. How else could it have been so easy?

His new firm is on Fleet Street. The partners are all gay or something or maybe just a few of them are. Warren met one of them in a club and they fucked for a couple of weeks before he offered Warren a job. "Does this count as sleeping my way up the ladder?" Warren asked you.

"Yeah," you said. "Yeah, definitely."

"Must have been impressed with your briefs," Lenny said. Warren rolled his eyes.

The relationship ended quickly and without retracting the job offer and Warren was back to lawyering within a month of coming home.

In front of the mirror, he does up his tie and recites something he calls an affirmation but mostly sounds like shite: _I am the master of my own destiny. I am in control of my life. I choose my path._

"Do you believe that?" you say, watching him.

"Sometimes saying it makes it true," he says. He pats his hair down with goo, something he bought from his hairdresser. You check the price tag on the bottom. It's almost as expensive as his tie.

"And sometimes it doesn't," you say.

"No system is perfect," he says. "But I know that when I was young and hopeful I told myself I was going to be a lawyer. The rest, as they say, is history."

"So you think that's all it takes?" you say. "I just start saying it and I could become a lawyer?"

"Only if you want to be," he says. "The point is, people who know what they want in life are more likely to achieve it." He rearranges the hair across his forehead. There's makeup in the bathroom cabinet. Some foundation, eyeliner for special occasions. Warren spends a lot of time on his appearance. You have shampoo and conditioner and sometimes you steal his moisturiser. If he notices he's never mentioned it. "It's about being focused, Ferdinand. Everyone can use a little focus. Even you."

You were about to be married once. That took commitment. You don't say to that Warren. "So what happens now that you're a lawyer?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a new goal?" you say.

"I do," he says mysteriously.

"And?"

"Love," he says, straightening his tie. He's serious.

*

A crash just off the Tower Bridge. Someone you know, not someone you're close to. Another courier. A guy on a bike. He's in a critical condition now and everyone's hanging about the offices looking scared, thinking the same thing and not saying it out loud: _that could have been me._

You need a change. Mia used to say you couldn't be a courier forever. "You'll need a real job," she would say. "To go with your real life." When you think about it now, Mia always knew you were a fake.

Warren would tell you that Mia was trying to pigeon hole you, squeeze you into her heterocentric idea of what a man or husband or person should be. "That's not you anymore," he says, like screwing guys has set you free.

"I need a new job," you tell Warren.

"Why?" Warren says. He's making dinner, still dressed in his three-piece suit minus the jacket. He's just got home.

"One of the guys got cleaned up today."

"Shit," Warren says, putting down the utensils. "What happened? Is he --"

"He's in the hospital," you say. "He'll pull through."

"Okay." Warren nods. "I can see why you might be looking for a career change."

"Can't be a courier forever," you say, and you try not to think about how much you sound like Mia.

"No," Warren says. "I suppose it's not really a life choice. What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know," you say. And you really don't. It's not like you had a plan. Except for the marriage and children part. Warren would probably tell you that's very revealing. "Nothing --" You want to say 'temporary' but that doesn't sound right. "Something different."

"Okay," Warren says. And he looks at you like he's waiting for you to elaborate.

But this is all you have. What would Warren say? _Set a goal. Focus. You are the master of your own destiny_. Sounds fucking stupid when you say it.

"Rent boy?" you say.

"Brilliant idea," Warren says.

*

You wonder how many people are propelled into careers by thoughts chance, madness, not really intending to end up where there did. Egg opened a cafe on a whim. Just passing by one day and bang, there's his life for the next five years.

People like Warren plan. You float.

A guy at work wants to take over a bike shop and you offer to go partner with money you don't have. Warren offers you a loan, and you figure if you sell your bike and talk to your parents you might just have enough.

You also offer to work in the shop. Day and night. Your colleague laughs but you figure you can put your wages toward being a partner or something.

"It could work," you tell Warren, as you add up your finances in your head. "The lease isn't up for three months anyway."

"It _will_ work," Warren says. "Say it like you mean it."

"It _will_ work," You say. You still sound fucking stupid.

*

3 am and you're just getting home. You're drunk, tired, and too fucking drugged up to do anything other than stand in the kitchen and stare at the sink. You need to stop. Just stop. You need to get your bearings. You laugh at yourself. You've been worse. A little pot, a lot of vodka, some guys from work and a club in Earls Court. You've been at it all night since you knocked off.

Warren is asleep. At least, you assume he is. He leaves his door open when he's out, closes it when he's in. He never told you how it worked, just left you clues and hoped you'd follow them. Warren is kind of anal, you think, and you laugh to yourself again. It sounds hilarious when you repeat it in your head.

So maybe you're the kind of guy that is never going to think things through? Maybe that's why there are Warrens in the world? There to plan because no one else does.

Impulse lead you to Warren in the first place. If you think about it, impulse lead you to Mia too. A friend of a friend, pretty and flirty. You were thinking about the game on the telly above the bar when you suddenly turned and asked her if she lived close by. That's how it's supposed to go, right? Spontaneity. Romance. You're Latin American after all.

Impulse leads you to Warren's room, to turn the handle slowly and peer inside. The street light streams in through the window and you can see him sleeping, duvet tucked up to his chin. You creep in quietly, pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. You walk carefully toward the bed, trying not to step on your own feet. You sit on the edge, take your boots off and your jeans and you climb under the covers beside him.

He doesn't seem to notice at first, but you slide your hand around his waist, press your lips to his shoulder and you feel him shuffle awake, a hand over yours at first and then slowly turning around to face you, all sleep filled and blurry.

"Ferdy?" he says, and his eyes are open now, blinking as he tries to take you in.

You kiss him because you're not ready for this discussion now. You want to fuck and you want to fuck him, shut him up for once, make him talk when you want him to.

Warren's far too practical for that. He pulls away. "Ferdy," he says sternly. And you back off a little, still holding him under the shoulder.

"Come on," you say. "Don't you want to?"

"You know I do," Warren says. "Which is why this isn't fair."

He's got an arm around your waist and whether he knows it or not, he's stroking the curve of your arse.

You bend to kiss his neck. "Don't think about it so much," you say, and you can feel him arching underneath you.

"Ferdy," he says again, only this time it's more resigned. He doesn't protest when you stroke him, when you bend his knees and reach for the condoms in the bedside drawer.

It's surprisingly familiar and you have to remind yourself it's been years not weeks. It's feels like yesterday. It feels like an age.

*

Things you don't talk about:   
Mia  
Lenny  
Women  
Last night.

*

It's Warren's birthday and he says he's tired of clubs and bars and he's going to have a dinner party. Something dignified. You say you'll help but you don't cook much so you mostly watch him go through recipe books trying to come up with something easy and crowd pleasing.

"Pasta," you say, pointing to a picture of pasta carbonara on the page Warren is looking at.

"David's a vegetarian," he says.

"Which one's David?" you say.

Warren looks at you like you're stupid. "The one I'm fucking."

"David," you repeat.

"I told you about him," Warren says, turning the page. "I knew you weren't listening."

"Is it serious?"

"We're fucking," Warren says. "He's not my special friend."

You shrug. "It's none of my business."

"That's right. It isn't," he says. He slams the book shut and goes into the living room. "We need a table."

That afternoon you buy tables and chairs. Furniture makes the too small living room appear even smaller but at least it looks like somewhere you might linger over a meal. If the food is good, of course.

David arrives first. He's tall, with dark hair and dark eyeliner. You wouldn't figure him for Warren's type but then they're fucking supposedly and not setting up house together. Maybe he's amazing in the sack?

In the end, Warren makes risotto and some kind of leafy green salad with cherry tomatoes and vinaigrette. David compliments you both on the food and you tell him that you were mostly the support squad. "I bought the wine though," you say, pouring David a glass.

"It's nice wine," David says.

The other guests include Warren's bosses from the firm, some faces you recognise and at least two you don't. Warren says one couple just got back from the Indonesia but he doesn't tell you what they were doing there. They look tanned and relaxed. Out of place in suburban London. They tell Warren he looks gorgeous for 27. "Not a day over 26," the tall one says. They all laugh.

"It's _that_ age," David says. "Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison..."

"Kurt Cobain," Warren says.

"Which is to say," David says. "If you must die young, you need to do it this year, darling, or it won't mean a thing." He pauses and looks thoughtful. "Unless you're Alan, of course. He was planning on being a spectacle no matter how old he was when he died. That bastard."

"Who was Alan?" you say, leaning into Warren's ear.

"David's partner," Warren says. "Died of AIDS."

You want to say you're sorry but David is already waving off sympathy from the other guests. "God, don't be so morbid," he says. "It's a party."

By midnight everyone wants to go to a club but no one wants to go to Soho so you get a taxi to a club under London Bridge which is half straight, half gay and mostly on E. Warren says it's the kind of place where there's something for everyone and you should fit right in.

"Give it a rest, Warren," you say, and you feel bad because it's his birthday.

Not that he's in need of moral support. It only takes an hour for Warren and David to get intimate against the wall near the bathroom and you can't prise them apart so you give up and go home.

*

David and Warren are almost a relationship when David announces the whole thing is too much and he's not ready to commit yet.

"I'm sorry," you tell Warren. And you mean it. David made you coffee in the mornings and told you to be careful out there. He was nice.

"No need to be," Warren says. "If he's happy, I'm happy." He's in cleaning mode, sorting the papers and envelopes on the table by the phone. "Yours," he says, throwing an envelope at you. "Mine, yours, yours – Lenny's." He crumples the paper into a ball and throws it at the waste paper bin. It misses. "Mine, mine, mine." He holds up a piece of paper. "Is this yours?"

It's got a name and a phone number on it. Your GP. Lenny's GP actually. Your old GP was on the other side of the Thames.

"Yeah," you say, taking the number off Warren.

"Anything I should know about?" He says. Nothing like a name and a phone number to rouse his attention.

"My Doctor," you say.

He looks concerned now. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." You haven't been in for about a year. And you wanted to get your ears checked. You've been getting these dizzy spells. Short but they occur on the bike sometimes. A guy at the depot said you might have an inner ear infection. It happens to motorcyclists sometimes. "Just – regular stuff."

"Okay," Warren says, and he crumples an envelope and throws it at the bin. "Also Lenny's."

You tuck the Doctor's number in your pocket.

*

"I'm considering a career change," Warren says. He's got brochures spread across your new table. You're sorting laundry on the floor. Warren dry cleans his suits and shirts but he lets you take his dirty socks to the laundrette with yours.

"Why?" you say.

"I think I can help people," he says.

"Isn't that why you became a lawyer?"

"Yes," he says. "And surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, I suppose, I discovered that's rarely what happens. "

"So what's the new career?" You say, coming over to the table.

"Life coach," he says. He hands you a brochure.

The cover says, "change your life, change someone else's." The pictures show smiling people in front of happy homes or in sporting scenarios. It looks oddly cultish. You'd be worried if Warren weren't so level headed. He gets some strange ideas sometimes but his enthusiasm usually comes from a sane place. He'd be annoying if he wasn't so earnest.

You hand him back the brochure. "You'd be a great life coach," you say.

"You think so?"

"Yeah, 'course."

*

Within a month, Warren is going to life coaching classes and you've become a business manager. You work 14 hours a day while Warren puts in his hours at the firm and squeezes in life coaching classes once a week.

You don't see each other a lot and you realise that not having him around makes you think about things.

"Do you still talk to Dale?" you ask him, on a rare evening when you're home together.

Warren is reading a book from his life coaching course. It's called "Change a Life Today" or "How to Change a Life" or something like that. They've all got similar titles. Warren finds them amusing sometimes and he reads passages out so you can laugh about it together. You're glad he's not inclined to take himself too seriously.

Warren doesn't look up from his book. "I called him on his birthday."

"How was that?"

"Wonderful," Warren says. "Like catching up with an old friend."

"Sorry I asked," you say, you collect the mugs off the coffee table and take them into the kitchen. Warren doesn't like anything resembling a pile on the side of the sink so you think you should probably do the dishes before he starts dropping less than subtle hints.

"He didn't hang up on me," Warren says, following you into the kitchen with plates. He puts them on the sink. "I suppose that's an improvement. Why do you ask?"

You shrug. "No reason."

"There's always a reason," Warren says. "We're not simple creatures."

"You need to stop reading those books," you say. "They're making you paranoid."

"Spoken like a master of diversion," Warren says. "You can't trick me, Ferdy. I know you too well."

Yeah, he probably does. You fill up the sink with water and wonder what you'll tell him. Some things are hard to say, even when they are simple. It's just not the person you are.

"I never told my mother and Lenny," you say. "About me and Lenny."

"I know."

You turn the taps off. "I think I should tell her."

Warren frowns. "About Lenny?"

"About me," you say. "About being – you know, gay."

The realisation dawns on Warren slowly. And then he grins. "You're gay now?"

"Well, yeah," you say. "I mean, it's pretty obvious isn't it?"

"I've always thought so."

"Yeah, well, I think I should tell my mum."

"You're coming out?"

"Yeah." You laugh a little. It sounds so fucking stupid. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Right," Warren says. He scratches the back of his neck. "Well, you know that didn't go well for me? I mean, that's why you were asking about Dale, wasn't it?"

"It might be okay," you say. Who are you kidding? The reason Mia never told your mother why the wedding was called off was because she knew it would break your mother's heart.

Warren puts his hand on your shoulder and pulls you into an embrace. It doesn't last long and he rubs your back they way you do when you're hugging for support rather than pleasure.

"I'll be here," he says, after he's pulled away. "You know – after it all goes to shite."

"I know," you say.

*

There's whiskey, vodka and tequila in the cupboard and you pull them all out, look at them blankly for a moment, and put the vodka and tequila back.

You half fill a glass with whiskey, knock it back and pour yourself another. By the time Warren gets home you're watching _The Goodies_ and laughing at the obvious stuff that usually makes you cringe.

"Went well, did it?" Warren says, taking off his jacket.

Your mother cried. "Fucking perfect," you say. She said she was glad your father wasn't alive to hear you.

"Sorry," Warren says, sitting on the couch beside you.

"It'll be okay," you say, lighting your second joint for the evening. You take a puff and hand it to Warren.

He tokes thoughtfully. "There's always Morocco," he says. "Australia, Fiji, San Francisco. Lots of places you can run away to."

"Like you did?"

"I like to think of it as a personal journey."

"Of course you fucking do," you say, and you take the joint off him. His shoulder is against yours. "You really think I should get away?"

He shrugs. "It might help."

It's not really what you were hoping to hear. You're going about this all wrong. You should probably be more direct, but then, that's Warren's job. Too many people expressing themselves in the room takes all the mystery out of a relationship. "What about you?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "I'm studying, remember?"

"No, I mean –" You wish you could be Warren sometimes. It must be so much easier getting stuff out in the open. "What about you and me?"

"You'll be fine without me, Ferdy," Warren says. "I think you're proved that already."

"What if I don't want to?"

He rubs his forehead and laughs wryly. "You're wasted."

That's true but you really have something to say. "I love you Warren."

"You're _really_ wasted."

"Yeah," you say. "Doesn't mean it isn't true."

"Yeah, it does," Warren says. "You're talking shite."

"I can prove it," you say.

"How?"

"Call my mum. I told her there was someone in my life. I said it was you."

"I'm not going to call your mum," he says.

"Call her," you say.

Warren leans across you and takes the phone from its cradle. "What's her number?"

You give him the number and he starts to dial. You feel mildly panicked and yet strangely resolute at the same time. God knows what your mother will say to Warren. It's possible she'll blame him for everything from your homosexuality to the death of Princess Di. Then again, she might actually say what you want her to: that she remembers Warren and what you said about him. It's a bit of gamble. You really are wasted.

Warren's half way through the number when he stops. "You really want me to call your mum?"

"No," you say. "But I'm telling the truth." You take another puff on the joint. "And I'm not _that_ wasted."

Warren leans back into the couch again. "So," he says. "What brought this on?"

You put the joint out in the ashtray on the floor, take Warren's face in your hands and kiss him, climbing into his lap. It's a good kiss. You can feel him moan in the back of his throat, feel him shift his position so you're grinding your groin against his. "Do you really want to know?" you say, when you pull apart.

"As it happens," Warren says, pulling you down again. "I don't give a fuck."

*

You get home early on Wednesday night. Warren is doing long hours lately, working on something important with lots of overtime, and he's not usually home before you anyway, so this is your time alone. Time to do whatever the hell you please.

You put Primal Scream on the stereo, take a beer from the fridge and put your feet up on the couch. You and Bobby Gillespie are "Moving on Up," and the world is good.

The phone rings during "Higher than the Sun," and you think about ignoring it because it means getting up off the couch but it could be Warren and you're sure he knows when you're ignoring the phone. You get up and answer it.

It turns out, it's your GP. It's unexpected. You weren't meant to ring for the tests results until tomorrow.

"I've been trying to get hold of you all day," she says.

*

You've it heard it said that this is the first day of the rest of your life. And you feel like you've just been woken up, snatched from a dream. The thought repeats itself in your head: _the rest of your life, the rest of your life_.

When Warren gets home you're sitting in silence. "I've been thinking of getting a telly," he says, hanging his coat by the door. "It's a little too quiet here sometimes."

You get up and go past him into the kitchen, look in the fridge for another beer. You don't find any so you pour yourself a glass of wine.

"Ferdy?" Warren calls from the living room.

You drink the wine, stare out the window onto the street where it's just starting to rain.

"Ferdy?" Warren is standing behind you now.

You don't turn around. "What?"

"You okay?"

Outside the rain makes the pavement shiny with the reflection of the streetlights. Two people cross the road with rain coats pulled over their head.

"No," you say.

 

End.


End file.
